


Three Days Ago

by SherlockWatson_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 12:13:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18315065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/pseuds/SherlockWatson_Holmes
Summary: When Sherlock returns from the dead, John has a second chance to tell him how he feels.Though it may be harder than he expects.





	Three Days Ago

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arthur_V_Alder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arthur_V_Alder/gifts).



For the last six months John Watson has been alive, but barely living. Still residing at 221b Baker Street, he has been considering moving out ever since he became the flat’s only inhabitant, he simply doesn’t have the energy or motivation to actually do anything about it. Besides, he still sees Sherlock everywhere, sitting in his chair, lying on the sofa, he can even hear the music when he is playing the violin. John isn’t crazy; he knows they are hallucinations, that they are quite common for those that have lost a loved one. He talks to Sherlock about anything and everything, just like he used to, and he hears Sherlock deducing his every thought.

The pain of loss has not yet begun to diminish, sometimes the nightmares seem _more_ vivid. He can still remember the sights, sounds, and smells from that day, and they come back to haunt him in the early hours.

John had tried to go back to work a month ago, but every cut and broken bone reminded him of Sherlock lying on the pavement. When the sight of a patient with a nasty head injury had incited a panic attack, Sarah had no choice but to send him home and sign him off for another three months. Mycroft continues to pay the full rent on the flat. John is too drained to argue.

Sarah ensures he has some sleeping medication, coming to the flat with one pill per evening and watching him take it. As a doctor, she is painfully aware that she is looking at a suicidal patient, and will not provide her friend with the means to take his life.

John won’t allow anyone to touch Sherlock’s possessions; even Mycroft has not been allowed to take any personal effects. Mrs. Hudson cleans the rest of the flat, but leaves John to fastidiously polish the violin, Billy the skull, and Sherlock’s microscope (still positioned in its usual place on the dining room table). He often sits in Sherlock’s chair as a preference to staring at it empty, and he always sleeps in the detective’s bed, believing he can still smell that familiar scent that was so uniquely “Sherlock”.

When Sherlock stood on that rooftop, John knew he loved him. If he’s honest with himself, he knew long before; maybe from the moment he was willing to put a bullet in that bloody awful cabbie. Now, with him gone, John recognises the extent of his affection more every day: the way he always made tea for him, even when he was being a git; cooked fresh meals for him, that he never ate; made sure he was warm enough, and that he slept. He patched him up when he was hurt, even the most minor of wounds. John just liked caring for him. He used to think about him day and night (still does), constantly texting when they were apart, despite them living together. And then there were all the times he had dropped everything and _everyone_ to do something reckless with the madman.

Mrs. Hudson knows. She makes sure that he eats enough to stay alive, and provides an endless supply of tea, but hasn’t broached the subject of moving on. She’s struggling with it herself; the man was like a son to her, and the flat is deathly silent without him.

**

Greg Lestrade has been in constant contact with John; though at first John wanted nothing to do with him. Greg had apologised profusely for his part in Sherlock’s arrest, and his subsequent downfall, but it had taken weeks before John began to accept that the policeman was doing his job and had no choice.

Once Anderson had been transferred, and Donovan demoted, the two men had become friendly again. Greg was mourning Sherlock, too. He had been attempting to cajole John into going for a drink on a weekly basis, something to get him out of the house. On the four-month anniversary of Sherlock’s death, John had eventually relented; drinking so much that he had to spend the night on Lestrade’s sofa, in no fit state to be left alone.

Their next few sessions were much the same, John drinking away his sorrows until he was vomiting. Greg knew he shouldn’t be encouraging this behaviour, but it seemed safer than letting him do it at home alone, and after the first few weeks their nights out became somewhat healthier. The company and distraction, were good for John. They always tried not to talk about Sherlock, but found they had little else in common besides the cases, so the spectre of the detective always hovered.

One night, Greg eventually broached the subject of John’s relationship with Sherlock, subtly hinting around the topic before directly asking if they had been a couple. John looked down into his drink for so long that Greg thought he wasn’t going to answer.

‘No’, John whispered.

‘But… there was something, wasn’t there?’ Greg asks, looking as sheepish as John.

‘Yeah, there was something… at least, from my side.’

‘Both sides, mate. That much was obvious from day one.’

John looks up at Greg with a glimmer of hope, before averting his eyes once more. However hard he tries, he can no longer find a place in his heart for hope.

**

The following Wednesday, after a few drinks to celebrate Lestrade’s reinstatement to Detective Inspector, John climbs unsteadily up the seventeen steps to the flat. Unlocking the front door, he freezes, keys dropping to the floor beside his feet.

He is more than a little surprised to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, legs crossed and hands together, fingertips touching his lips. The detective is wearing a black suit with matching black shirt, at least one size too small, and the buttons open to show off his neck and collarbone. His curls are shorter than usual, but no less perfectly coiffed, and he cocks and eyebrow at John’s stunned expression. He almost looks as though he had never left.

‘John’, Sherlock’s voice is rusty from disuse.

Coming back to himself, John takes off his jacket and turns to place it on the hook, next to the Belstaff which is now hanging back where it belongs.

‘I thought maybe I had stopped seeing you, it’s been over a week. Ella thinks I’m _healing_. Ha.’

‘John?’ Sherlock asks, confused.

John begins to boil the kettle for tea; making two, as he always does when he’s having these hallucinations, throwing the cold liquid away when it has sat on the side table, untouched.

‘You’re usually a lot chattier than this. No deductions today?’ He takes a seat opposite, sipping from his cup, waiting.

‘I take it you’re used to seeing me.’ Sherlock uncrosses his legs and leans forward to study John.

‘You’re always here, Sherlock. Even when I’m not seeing you, you’re always with me.’

Sherlock stays silent, simply watching John as he drinks his tea and flicks through some bills on the table. For twenty minutes they sit in silence, before John takes his empty cup, and Sherlock’s full one, into the kitchen, and prepares to go to bed.

‘This really isn’t the welcome home I was expecting, John.’

John pauses at the foot of the stairs, turning back to look into the now dark living room. Something seems different this time. Sherlock is standing up; he looks as thin as always, but there is some definition in his arms and shoulders, making his shirt seem even tighter. But it’s not just the physical differences; his demeanour, and the conversation, are atypical. Not that anything about hallucinating your best friend is “typical”.

The doctor walks towards his detective, intrigued as to what his mind is going to conjure up. ‘I’ve had a bit too much alcohol for this’, he says, but he sits back down in his chair.

Sherlock approaches the chair and kneels down in front of John, placing his hands on his knees. John flinches, the touch feels so real, it’s unusual that he can so tangibly feel his touch when he imagines him. Maybe because they rarely touched before he died.

There is a lingering smell of cigarettes around Sherlock; this is new. John’s aversion to smoking usually keeps that particular detail out of his hallucinations.

‘John, I am so, so sorry. I had no other choice.’

The doctor’s eyes widen suddenly, and he hears the sound of blood rushing in his ears, as the truth begins to dawn on him.

‘Sher –’ John chokes on the name that had once been so familiar.

Sherlock leans forward and moves his hands up to John’s arms, sensing the impending breakdown.

‘Oh God! It’s really you… You _bastard!_ You fucking bastard.’

John begins to push Sherlock away, but that just causes Sherlock to pull him in tighter. Keeping one hand on Sherlock’s chest, over his heart, John cries. He cries harder than he had when Sherlock died, at his funeral, or at the times he had stood at his graveside. Wrapping his other arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, he weeps hot tears into his neck.

He has always maintained that if he was ever given another chance, he would hold Sherlock tight and never let him go, he would tell him how much he loved him, he would kiss him until the sun set and rose again. You say these things when you lose someone. But do you ever actually act on them when you get that second chance? Or do the same old fears intrude again?

‘I wanted to _die_ , Sherlock! I’d failed my best friend, called him a machine, made him think I didn’t care, then I just stood there while he took his own life. And I never told him how much he meant to me’, John sobs, words congealing in his throat. ‘Did you know I went for my gun that night, but it wasn’t there? You can thank Mycroft for that... I was ready to put a bullet in my brain, rather than live with the agony of losing you. When I couldn’t do that, I asked Sarah for sleeping pills, but she –’, John breaks off as he sees the other man’s expression.

‘Sherlock? Are you alright?’

The colour has faded from Sherlock’s face, and in a blur of motion he moves quickly through the kitchen. John has barely a chance to react before he hears retching coming from the bathroom.

He starts to follow, but remembers Sherlock hates to be seen in a moment of weakness, much like himself, so he stays seated. His left leg is bouncing up and down and his fist is clenching, his whole body taken over by shivers. Shock, he tells himself; it’s hardly surprising.

Sherlock fills a glass with water on his way back through the kitchen and sits on the floor with his back against John’s chair.

‘There were three snipers, pointing at you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I had anticipated you being targeted, but not the others. Stupid. It should have occurred to me’, Sherlock frowns, angry at himself for what he had failed to consider, and what that lapse had caused. ‘Mycroft and I had several possible strategies in place, depending on Moriarty’s game plan, but when he told me about the snipers, then shot himself… It was the only choice we had. If you were the only one in danger we maybe could have worked around it, but with the others threatened too… I couldn’t risk anything happening to them just because I missed you...’

Sherlock trails off and John is stunned by what he has heard. It never occurred to him that Sherlock was protecting him. He finds his eyes filling with tears again, and he places his hand in Sherlock’s hair, playing with the curls in a soothing gesture.

‘John… if you had committed suicide, it would have been _me_ that killed you, not Moriarty. That would have destroyed me. Maybe that’s what Moriarty wanted all along; not for his sniper to kill you, but for me to do exactly what I did, and for my faked death to have been the cause. I put you in as much danger as I was trying to save you from.’

‘I would have happily risked my life to fight alongside you.’

‘I know that, John, but I couldn’t let you put yourself in harm’s way for me… And now that you know the truth, would you really have been willing to put our other friends at risk?’

Sherlock turns to make eye contact with John, but, after a beat, his friend lowers his gaze in concession. When he speaks, it is barely more than a whisper.

‘It was always the two of us, Sherlock… You could have let me know.’

‘Once I was dead it was better to stay dead. You would all be safe and I could try to dismantle Moriarty’s network. It should have taken me years. I shouldn’t be back here now. But Molly, she said –’

‘Wait – Molly knew?!’

‘Of course, John. I needed someone on the inside to supply the body and take care of the autopsy, I’ll explain all that, I promise. Mycroft refused to send me updates on you, as I knew he would, saying I didn’t need the distraction. But Molly… she told me how much you were struggling.’

All this time, Molly bloody Hooper knew? No wonder she had avoided him for the past six months; though she had clearly been keeping an eye on him without his knowledge. John is angry, with Molly, with Sherlock, with Mycroft, and the whole damn world.

‘ _Struggling_ … _?!_ I came to your grave... I _begged_ you to stop being dead.’

‘I heard you.’

Sherlock sits up on his knees by the side of John’s chair, and takes both of John’s hands in his, trying to convey everything he can’t say in words, through his touch and the look in his eyes. He’s allowing John to read him, and it appears John sees what he needs to see, because the anger on his face fades away and is replaced by an expression of extreme tiredness. He sighs, heavily.

‘God, I’m exhausted, I need to get some sleep. I hope you don’t mind… I’ve been, um…’

‘Evidently.’ Trust Sherlock to have searched the flat and realised that John had been using his room. Still no sense of privacy.

‘It’s fine... You did think I was dead, after all. The whole flat was yours.’

‘You look like you could do with a rest yourself. When was the last time you slept? ’

Sherlock averts his eyes and begins to pull away. ‘It’s only transport, John.’

‘Bollocks… come on.’ He stands, pulling Sherlock up and leading him into the bedroom. Before using the bathroom, he places some of Sherlock’s own pyjamas on the bed, leaving him standing in the middle of the room looking slightly lost… and wondering why on Earth John had kept his clothes.

By the time John re-enters the room, Sherlock is in bed; fast asleep under the covers on the left-hand side (he knows John prefers the right). John climbs in beside him without hesitation, lying on his side, and placing a hand on Sherlock chest. Counting the heartbeats, he falls into a dreamless sleep.

**

Waking up the following morning, John is firstly surprised that he has slept, and secondly to find that Sherlock is still there, snoring softly into the pillow. They are close in the middle of the bed; John’s hand is still positioned over Sherlock’s heart, and the younger man has a tight grip around John’s wrist, fingers pressing onto his pulse point.

It’s pleasant when they have breakfast together the next morning, like they used to. Mrs. Hudson is at her sister’s, and they are keeping the front door locked against any unexpected visits from Lestrade. John needs to do the shopping; they could do with some real food, and Sherlock is _demanding_ his favourite biscuits and nicotine patches (John refuses to let him smoke). When he leaves the flat, Sherlock is stretched out like a cat on the sofa, reorganising his mind palace.

On the way to Asda, John has to remind himself not to smile; It’s a challenge for him to pretend he’s still deep in the depressive fog that has surrounded him for the last six months.

In the afternoon they try to play games; Operation is quickly ruled out, John has a steadier hand, obviously; Chess is pointless because Sherlock always wins quickly; Monopoly takes so long to play that Sherlock is bored within the first two hours; Scrabble causes arguments over the complicated words one of them has heard of but the other one hasn’t, so they spend most of the game consulting a dictionary.

‘John, how about Cluedo?’

‘Not a chance. Even after six months I don’t want to play that bloody game.’

That evening they order in a curry, and John drafts a blog post about Sherlock’s return, ready for when the official announcement is made. Sherlock shows John a picture of them in his wallet that Mrs. Hudson took last Christmas. John laughs because he has the exact same photo on his desk at work. Neither of them question it when they head for the same bed that night.

**

By Friday, Sherlock is going stir crazy. Unable to solve cases for the yard, he has started up his experiments again and is currently studying something with his microscope. John doesn’t want to know exactly what he’s looking at, but he’s happy to see him back there again, perched on the edge of his seat.

‘I imagine after the last six months you’re looking forward to solving normal cases again.’

‘Normal is dull. Though I will admit, it was quite enjoyable solving the ones on your blog this morning and pretending it was you.’ Sherlock smirks.

‘Seriously? Nobody will believe I actually solved those!’

‘They were so predictable, even you could have managed them. Now, I need coffee.’ Sherlock hops up from his seat, experiment forgotten, and grabs his coat. ‘That little Italian bistro off Great Portland Street, what do you think?’

‘You can’t go out, Sherlock, you’re not officially alive yet!’

‘Once I cover up the curls, people won’t notice me, I’ll put on a hat; you should do the same. If they can’t recognise you, then they are even less likely to see me.’ He sees the expression on John’s face and rolls his eyes, ‘No, not _that_ hat.’

Later, with coffees in hand, they take a walk through Regent’s Park. The silence between them, which always used to be so comfortable, is now a breeding ground for John’s insecurities.

‘Sherlock, why did you trust Molly and not me?’

‘It had nothing to do with trust, John. She was the person best placed to help, and at the time when I approached her I hadn’t considered that anyone, other than you, would be targeted.’ Sherlock stops walking, turning to face John, ‘We were lucky that Jim had seen me dismiss her in the lab; he thought she was unimportant to me. She’s not, of course, she’s my friend, but… I don’t care for her the way I care for you. I could not put _you_ at risk.’

John turns away to face the lake, thinking through Sherlock’s words. He wants to believe that he was left ignorant of Sherlock’s plans simply _because_ of his importance, but his own trust issues had been increased tenfold due to this deception.

Sherlock can see the uncertainty in his friend’s eyes.

‘My God, John, I jumped off that roof because _I love you!_ It’s not an emotion I have any experience with and I didn’t really understand it until I stood on that rooftop and had to say goodbye to you. Those tears weren’t an act, John. It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. I knew it would hurt you, but I did it anyway. I had to. John… when you shot Jeff Hope for me... I think that was the first time I fell for you.’

‘Everything was for you. You _are_ everything.’

‘Jesus, Sherlock. I want to say those words back to you, I really do. But I can’t, not right now. There’s just so… _much._ I can’t even understand what I’m feeling.’

‘It’s okay, I understand. I… hmm. Let’s head back, I have experiments to check on.’

**

Despite the rather subdued ending to the evening, John wakes feeling happier than he has in over six months. He spends the morning cleaning the house, actually dancing to the radio, before Sherlock turns it off to work on a composition. It’s amazing how much mess Sherlock has managed to make in just a few days.

‘You have no idea how much I missed your mess, your complaining, and your bloody violin at three in the morning! I’ve just missed you so much. I felt like I’d lost half of myself, you know?’

‘Yes, I think I know exactly what you mean.’

Sherlock turns away, continuing to play, leaving John wondering what the last six months had truly been like for his friend. It’s a conversation they really need to have sooner rather than later. Deciding to leave it until Sherlock has finished composing, he lies his head back, listening to the soothing violin music.

He must have dozed off, because the next time he opens his eyes, the music has stopped and Sherlock is pacing in front of the sofa.

‘Going out yesterday seemed to be a success, let’s go to Angelo’s. I might need more of a disguise this time, though.’ He disappears into the bedroom, only to yell back, ‘Book a table in the back!’

Once John has booked the table, he takes his time getting ready; this feels a lot like a date, and he wants to look his best. When he comes back down the stairs, he thinks there is someone sitting in Sherlock’s chair, until he looks into those unmistakable eyes and realises that it _is_ Sherlock. With his curls flattened and brushed forward, and a hat holding it all down, he looks remarkably different. Dressed in jeans and a looser shirt, John would struggle to pick him out of a line up.

Sherlock smirks, pleased to have taken John by surprise, and just as pleased that John is wearing his best date clothes.

Arriving at Angelo’s, they manage to avoid the man himself, and are led to their requested booth at the back of the restaurant. The close, candlelit corner, tucked away from prying eyes, only adds to the romantic atmosphere, though John is looking forward to a time when he can do this with Sherlock actually looking like himself.

John orders prawn linguine for himself, and when Sherlock isn’t forthcoming with an order, John chooses a seafood risotto. A bottle of white wine to celebrate.

‘Eat something, you git, you’re even thinner than usual… And if you say, “It’s just transport”, I’ll stab you in the hand with this bloody fork.’ John waves the fork threateningly, and laughs at Sherlock’s affronted face. They are giggling by the time their food arrives.

Between bites, they talk about their old cases, the experiments, the body parts in the fridge, and the bullet holes in the wall that drove Mrs. Hudson mad. It’s their version of flirting, John supposes.

Sherlock barely touches his food, too busy talking, but he does keep stealing prawns from John’s plate, so John eats a fair amount of the risotto.

After sharing a tiramisu, and John paying the bill, they decide on a walk home. It’s something they had always enjoyed doing after a meal out; a long, winding walk home to burn off the calories from their indulgent meal. Tonight, they purposely take a detour, stretching the twenty-minute walk into an hour, still reminiscing about their old life together, somewhat like a divorced couple getting back together. They are walking so close to each other that their arms keep brushing, but neither move away. It feels to John like they are holding hands.

When they get home, they fall onto the sofa, full and tired. They are sitting close, Sherlock’s arm stretched around the back, and they are laughing about the ashtray stolen from Buckingham Palace, which Sherlock has just spotted on the coffee table. John had found it hidden amongst a selection of oddments on the bookcase a few months ago and decided to put it on display.

John leans closer to Sherlock, and suddenly they are silent, the air full of possibilities. He takes Sherlock’s left hand in both of his, and turns to look at his best friend.

‘Sherlock… I don’t know why the words have been so hard for me to say, but I’ve _never_ been able to say them. Never once, despite all the times I imagined you here… because I thought you would mock me. I couldn’t even say them to your gravestone. Ella tried to get me to say them, to get the weight off my chest, but if I did... I would be admitting to myself that I hadn’t just lost a friend, I’d lost the potential for so much more. I’d lost the… the love of my life.’

Tears begin to form in Sherlock’s beautiful sea-green eyes, and he pulls John into his arms. The months of loneliness, along with the relief of reunion and requited feelings, are too much for them both, and before long they are sobbing heavily and holding each other tightly.

‘I used to text you, every single day, begging you not to be dead, to come back to me. Asking you why, how, what I had done wrong.’ John’s words are muffled as he talks into Sherlock’s neck, trying desperately to stop crying long enough to speak. ‘It was an addiction. I know nobody was ever going to see them, unless Mycroft –’

‘I read them. All of them.’ Sherlock manages to say, as his tears run dry.

‘What?!’ John pulls back, but keeps hold of Sherlock’s arms.

‘Um… Not good?’

John snorts out a small laugh, ‘Bit not good, yeah.’

‘You _sent_ them to me!’

‘When I thought you were dead!’

‘So you didn’t actually want me to read them?’ Sherlock frowns in confusion. ‘Sometimes you are an absolute enigma, John… I kept the number so that Molly could keep me updated, and if I’m completely honest, I hoped you might try to contact me. I could never reply, obviously, but… I kept hoping you would _know_ that I was still alive, and that you would wait for me… I’m sorry.’

‘Christ, Sherlock… I love you… I love you so fucking much.’

 John’s hands move up into Sherlock’s curls, brushing through them softly, he begins to guide them closer together, making his intentions clear. Sherlock reaches up to wipe away John’s tears before moving his hands to mirror John’s. Their foreheads touch gently and they pause for a moment, the enormity of the situation taking their breath away. With their eyes closed they angle themselves perfectly, as if they’ve been doing this for years. As their lips graze against each other, Sherlock suddenly pulls back.

John wonders what the hell he’s done wrong as he looks at the furious expression on Sherlock’s face. Just as he is about to question him, the answer becomes obvious in the distant voice of Mycroft Holmes, conversing with Mrs. Hudson. Damn that bloody man!

‘I’m sorry, John. Suddenly I feel a migraine coming on.’ Sherlock sweeps out of the room and down the hall towards his bedroom, leaving John in a confused, and slightly aroused state; though the sound of Mycroft’s footsteps on the stairs soon pour cool water on that.

John plasters a fake smile on his face. ‘Good evening, Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Good evening, John. Just a social call. How are you?’ He sits in John’s chair placing his umbrella against the fireplace.

‘You don’t make social calls, Mycroft. I have a good idea about why you’re here, but I’d like to hear it from you.’ John challenges.

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow, before his demeanour changes into something softer, almost friendly.

‘People are concerned for you, John. I’ve had several reports about your well-being.’

‘Six months. Six months after you stopped me eating my gun, you are worried about my well-being? What business of yours is it anyway?’

‘You were very important to my brother, John. It would be remiss of me to abandon you.’ Mycroft holds his hand up to stop John from interrupting. ‘Despite my encouragement to the contrary, Sherlock had _feelings_ for you. I did not want him getting attached to anyone, but you were good for him, I think.’ John can’t help the look of surprise on his face; he’s never heard Mycroft compliment anyone.

‘Appreciated, Mycroft, but it’s all a bit late now, isn’t it?’ He pauses, unsure whether he should break Sherlock’s confidence, but convinced that this must be the reason for this unscheduled visit.

‘I know about it all, Mycroft. He told me everything; the snipers, the faked death, his “mission”. I know he wasn’t supposed to be back yet, but it seems he needed me as much as I needed him.’

‘Sorry? He’s… back?’

‘Three days ago. Somehow slipped your surveillance in Serbia. I can’t believe his safety was in your hands and you let him disappear! You aren’t sending him back out there, not without me, preferably not at all.’

‘John… what has Sherlock been telling you about his mission?’ Mycroft at least has the decency to look chastised by John’s comments.

‘Very little. He’s been avoiding the subject, actually, but it’s about time the three of us talked. Let me get him.’

Mycroft’s mobile phone starts to ring as John gets up and heads towards the bedroom, calling out, ‘Sherlock. He knows you’re here, you might as well come out.’

‘Mycroft Holmes.’

‘It’s Agent Walker, Sir. We have taken the compound in Serbia… However, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you… the video file you received three days ago was genuine.’

‘Dear God...’ Mycroft lets his eyes flutter softly closed. ‘I suppose there is no doubt?’

‘None, Sir. I really am very sorry.’

‘Thank you, Walker. Ensure transportation back to London as soon possible; coordinate with Anthea.’

Mycroft hangs up the phone, placing it on the table next to John’s chair without opening his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a steadying breath. Opening his eyes, he stands and turns towards the kitchen, hearing John’s voice coming from the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

As Mycroft walks through the kitchen and down the hallway he can see John sitting in the old chair opposite the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, facing the bed as he talks.

‘Sherlock he’s just your brother. He knows now, and we need to talk about what happens next. I’m not letting you go again.’ He looks at Mycroft as he comes into the room.

Mycroft doesn’t wasn’t to be right about this; but he knows he is. He approaches John slowly, as if a sudden movement might startle him.

‘John, there are some things we need to talk about.’

‘Yes, all three of us, for Christ’s sake. _Talk to each other_ , for once in your bloody lives. Your brother has been dead for six months, and now he’s sitting _right there!’_

John waves his arms towards the bed which, like the rest of the room, is completely empty. As Mycroft looks over the room, and back to the damaged man smiling at someone only he can see, Sherlock’s brother allows himself a single tear.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me on twitter @SH_JW_2010


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